


Save the date!

by OhAine



Series: After the dance [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I make no apologies for how this is gonna go down, Sherlolly - Freeform, Tooth Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock proposed to Molly she was the happiest girl in the world, but that was only until she started to plan the wedding...</p>
<p>Follow up to 'The Dance' series, and set in the same universe as 'Take me and erase me'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nydamascus97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nydamascus97/gifts), [MaybeItsJustMyType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/gifts).



> As you all know, I own nothing!!
> 
> This will be a series of short stories about the lead up to Sherlock and Molly's wedding, which will take us up to a proper full length story about the day itself

 

 

 

 

 

To: 'All contacts'

Re: 'Happy news' 

 

So Hi everyone!

Well I have some news to share, which some of you already know because John puts everything up on that bloody blog of his and Sherlock's parents took out that news paper ad, and Kitty Reilly ran a sleezy story about it - not that I mind - no, it's just my bloody special day, why should I care if everyone I love gets to hear about it through the Daily Mail or an internet blog and strangers in the street heard before my Nan, who isn't talking to me now, nor is my Mum for that matter because I don't want to wear the crap dress she wore when she married my Dad in 1971 when she was 7 months pregnant with Libby and was the size of a small house. And then there's dodgy uncle Phil who wants to walk me down the aisle, and I had to tell him Mycroft was head of MI6 to put him off, AND NOW HE'S NOT TALKING TO ME EITHER (yes I mean both Phil AND Mycroft - apparently the MI6 thing was meant to be a secret)

Oh, and for the record, Kitty Reilly got her facts wrong - this is not a shot gun wedding, I'm not pregnant with Sherlock's love child, and I did not try to trap him into a loveless marriage for the sake of said nonexistent love child. And how can she simultaneously question his sexuality by calling me his 'beard' and then claim he bedded a 'bevy' of women while in a relationship with me?? Huh Kitty??? How? How?

I'm not marrying him for his money, in case anyone read the piece in The Sun. Or his title. Actually I had no idea about the title until I read the story - that made for interesting dinner conversation with my new fiancé I can tell you. And I really don't think 'spinster' is an accurate discription of me either - just because I'm single and have a career doesn't make me a Jane Austen style sad sack. 

Wait, ok, deep breath, start again. I am a calm blue ocean...

My news is - Aaaahhhhhhh I'm getting married!!!! 

So this is a save the date request... Sherlock and I will be getting married on December 24th this year. Formal invitations will follow - once we find a venue that will take our booking - because of the Moriarty debacle and the bombs and the shootings and the fake deaths the hotels in London seem a bit wary...

Anyway, here's to the happiest day in a girl's life, hope you all can make it.  I'll keep you posted with updates as I go but can't wait to see you at my wedding. To Sherlock Holmes.  

I'll be Mrs Holmes then you know.

He'll be my husband.

Do you know what? I have a really good feeling that this will be the perfect day...

Love,

Molly xx

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta, MaybeItsJustMyType !!

 

 

 

Libby stirred her coffee for about the fiftieth time, listening as calmly as she could to her sister. The hustle and bustle of the café helping to disguise the occasional frustrated sigh that she couldn’t hold back.

 

Planning a wedding was stressful, getting married was stressful; but letting their mother get involved? Libby mused that there should be a branch of psychiatric medicine dedicated to _that_ particular level of stress.

 

“Look, Molly,” she finally said, dropping her spoon in to the now cold cappuccino, “you have to stop letting Mum push you around! If you and Sherlock make a decision, that should be it. End. Of.”

 

“It’s not that she’s insisting Uncle Phil walk me down the aisle,” in fact it was, but Molly just couldn’t admit that although she’d really wanted Mycroft to give her away, her mother had nipped that idea in the bud, saying manipulatively, _‘It’s what your father would have wanted’,_ even though she knew it wasn’t; frowning, her own eyes trained on the pot of tea the hovering waitress seemed fixated on taking away, “the real problem is that she’s now insisting I wear white.”

 

“Oh, Molly, you’re not serious?”

 

“Yeah,” Molly said sadly, “I told her, I said _‘We live together Mum, the cat’s out of the bag, people know I’m not a virgin,’_ and she said _‘Maybe, Dear, but you don’t have to advertise it.’_ So, well, in the end I said I would.”

 

Rolling her eyes at her sister, Libby questioned, exasperated, “But what about the lovely 50’s vintage dress you found online, the yellow and silver one? You were crazy about it!”

 

“I know, but Mum is driving _me_ crazy, and it’s just a dress-”

 

“It’s your wedding dress, Molly.”

 

“- it’s not worth having a fight with Mum over, not so close to the wedding with so many other things going wrong.”

 

“Still no venue then?”

 

“No,” Molly sighed heavily,” suddenly wishing they’d gone to the pub instead of Costa, “and I really thought hiring that wedding planner would move things along.”

 

“But…?”

 

“Well,” she winced a bit, “all he seems to do is flirt with Sherlock, and tell me that my taste is shit and that I have no clue what I’m doing. Which I knew anyway; that’s why I hired the tosser in the first place.”

 

“He’s flirting with Sherlock?” Libby could barely contain a grin, the urge to take the mickey too strong to deny herself.

 

“Yes.” Molly huffed through her nose, half mystified.

 

 

“In front of you?” Libby’s tone had turned teasing and amused, her eyebrows raised.

 

“Yes,” she hated her sister sometimes. Really. Like, _really_ really.

 

“And how is Sherlock taking that?” Knowing exactly how a Holmes dealt with unwanted flirtation; he had probably eviscerated the wanker.

 

Sheepishly, Molly looked at her sister, the beginnings of a small smile playing on her lips, “Sherlock thinks it’s hilarious. He’s flirting back.”

 

The last cold mouthful of Libby’s cappuccino sprayed through the fingers pressed over her mouth. In gales of laughter she threw her head back, tears streaking her mascara, “The bastard!”

 

“Yeah,” laughed Molly, “well he asked first, and I said it was okay, which it was – I actually though it was quite funny, he reckoned it was too good an opportunity to practice his shamming skills to waste, so what can I do?”

 

“Well sack the planner, for starters,” surely that much should have been obvious to Molly, even if she was the sweetest person in the world.

 

“Lib, I have no venue, no dress, thanks to Mum the guest list is up to 400-”

 

“Stop, stop, stop,” Libby held her hands up, palms out, to Molly, “this is ridiculous. It’s getting out of hand, this isn’t the wedding you really want, you know it isn’t. We’ll do the wedding at ours – it was perfect for mine, it’ll be perfect for yours – buy the damn yellow dress, and, well, fuck Mum’s opinion, and go back to your first list of – what was it?”

 

“29.”

 

“29, and sack the bloody planner, you don’t need anyone to tell you you’re shit. Especially when you’re not.”

 

“He didn’t say _I_ was shit, just my taste,” okay, maybe she didn’t _really_ hate Libby after all.

 

There it was, the straw that broke Libby’s back, how dare anyone pick on her beautiful baby sister, “Sweetie, I just don’t get it, I really don’t. You once saved Sherlock from a Russian mob boss, shot the fake Jim from IT guy-”

 

“Fake Moriarty,” Molly offered helpfully.

 

“-okay, fine, _fake Moriarty_ , and even Mycroft quakes in his Italian leather shoes when you’re pissed off at him, so why are you letting Mum, and some arse-hole wedding planner push you around?”

 

“I just want it to be perfect,” she hated to admit it but there it was anyway, “for Sherlock.”

 

“Oh, Darling, it _will_ be perfect. Sherlock doesn’t care about any of that other nonsense,” Libby stretched out and took her sisters hand, “he just wants you. He’d do the wedding in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator if it meant he got to spend the rest of his life with you; you know that Sweetie, you must?”

 

For the first time since they sat down Molly smiled genuinely, her countenance lighter, her face happy, “Yeah,” she shrugged happily, “I do.”

 

“Then fuck it all, and just do what you want,” Libby glanced at her watch, “Shit! Look at the time, I’ve got to get back to work, I have a patient coming at 2p.m. and Mycroft is picking me up at 3.”

 

“How is Mycroft? I haven’t seen him at Baker Street in ages.” Molly asked brightly; she adored her brother-in-law, they’d been through so much together and he'd always been by her side when she needed it most.

 

“Oh you know, busy starting wars, strangling nuns, brainwashing kittens to be assassins, same old, same old,” winking, Libby grabbed her coat and bag, throwing money down on the table and kissing her sister’s cheek, “I’ve got to run, but think about what I said. Yeah? Do what _you_ want Babes.” She had gotten half way to the door before shouting over her shoulder, “And just for the record, your taste isn’t shit, it’s unique and daring – you’re a fucking style icon Molly Hooper. Love you Sis.”

 

Finally letting the waitress take their cups away Molly smiled to herself; Libby was right, she was taking control back. Sherlock loved her, they were going to be married. That was all that mattered. He’d be home soon, the bombing case was dragging on a bit, these things often did, but when he got back, they’d scrap it all and start from scratch – doing things their way.

 

God, how she missed him when he was away. _Still_ , she smiled to herself, _the welcome home sex made up for it._ With a spring in her step, she strolled back to Bart’s kicking the fallen autumn leaves as she went. Pulling out her phone, she fired off a quick text to her fiancé.

_I love you. I can’t wait to marry you._

_M x_

 

Within seconds her phone chimed, alerting her to a text that read,

_I love you too. You are the star to my wand’ring bark. Home soon._

_S_

 

_Yeah_ , she thought happily, _it could only get better from here._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Here be dubious interpretations of mathematical theories.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and adorable MaybeItsJustMyType, aka sweet-sweet-escape on tumblr, but needless to say if there are mistakes they're all mine... 
> 
> This chapter is for her... I tip my hat to that woman and her comedic skills; we frequently have looooonnnggggg chats about Mr Cumberbum, eh, I mean Cumberbatch, and when she beta'd 'Take my body apart' Sweets coined a royal title for him (you'll know it when you see it) that will forever be my head canon. 
> 
> Oh...And, no, K darling, it wasn't the blue dressing gown, that was safe in Mrs Hudson's flat ;)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirens screeched and wailed, fire engines and police vans rushed past the town car that Mycroft had sent for them as Molly and Libby sat in stony silence, both staring in opposite directions. Their car stagnant as traffic ground to a halt, letting emergency services through.

 

It had been a…challenging day, and Molly wasn’t in the mood to thank her sister for the part she’d played in the debacle at the bridal boutique.

 

The day had all started off on the wrong foot and went downhill without breaks after that. Molly was still upset that her sister had told tales out of school; she’d had a cosy chat with Sherlock about their mother pushing his blushing bride into buying a dress she hated, just to keep the peace. The result being a conversation with Sherlock where he’d threatened to plant evidence on his future mother in law to incriminate her in the bombings he’d been investigating without success for the last three months; the subsequent argument had put Molly in _just_ the right frame of mind to spend a day being laced and buttoned up in far too expensive, hideous dresses while her mother told her that she still had time to lose a few pounds before the wedding.

 

And then there was Kitty Reilly’s piece that had ran that morning in the Daily Mail…the one that set Sherlock off on a mission to find a good place to hide the corpses he was planning bury when he got hold of Kitty and her two ill-informed accomplices.

 

The bride-to-be took a steadying breath. It didn’t matter now anyway what she wore, she’d checked online that morning, the vintage yellow dress she’d fallen in love with had been sold, so did it really matter what the hell she wore if it wasn’t the one she really wanted?

 

Besides, her enthusiasm for dress shopping had been dampened by the article in Heat magazine about her fashion sense, which, thanks to Sherlock’s celebrity status, had garnered her a place on the current Celebrity Worst Dressed List. After that no respectable designer had wanted her to be seen in their dresses. She was lucky to have found a shop where she wasn’t recognised, and her mother had been her version of happy when Molly put the fucking meringue on, so wasn’t it worth it just to get the whole thing over with?

 

Of course Libby, stubborn, opinionated Libby, had stuck her oar in and told their mother _and_   Molly off, the whole scene descending into tears (their mother’s) and chaos (Libby and a belligerent shop assistant), culminating in Libby stomping off, and Molly agreeing to the hideous dress just to calm their Mum down before she had one of her ‘ _turns_ ’.

 

The last of the flashing blue lights passed them, and traffic began to move again toward Baker Street; Molly felt a gentle hand cover her own where it rested on the leather seat between them, as they both stared sightlessly at the streets now beginning to rush past them once more.

 

“Sorry,” Libby said softly, her voice tight with emotion.

 

Molly turned her hand over and lacing their fingers together, squeezed her sister’s hand, “I know.”

 

“I just- I just want you to be happy,” her sister sighed, turning to look at Molly, “and you’re not. You’re _really_ not.”

 

Molly closed her eyes against the tears that were looming.

 

“And, fuck it Molly, _you deserve to be_. You and Sherlock, you’ve been through so much, and you love the bones of each other. I can’t bear to see you so fucking miserable, especially when you should be deliriously happy. I thought after you sacked the wanker wedding planner things would be different, you know? That you were going to do what you and Sherlock pleased, and fuck everyone else.”

 

The tears that had been stinging her eyes finally rolled silently down Molly’s cheeks, Libby, pulling out of her seat belt, gathered her baby sister into her arms.

 

“I’m sorry,” Molly sniffed, letting her head fall onto Libby’s shoulder. She didn’t have the heart to tell her that they’d been served with papers two days ago; the wanker wedding planner was suing Sherlock for sexual harassment.

 

“Will you please stop saying that? Please? It’s the rest of us who should be sorry Babes, we’re taking all of the joy out of this for you.”

 

“It’s not you, really it’s not. It’s not the fact that I still don’t have a venue. It’s not even Mum or the bloody dress.” Reaching over, Molly pulled the morning paper from her ridiculously oversized bag and handed it to her sister, “I expected this from Janine. But Tom? I trusted him Lib, I even thought I loved him once. For him to do this…”

 

Libby didn’t have to read it to know what had been said; Mycroft had called her before surgery that morning to warn her, but she’d decided against bringing it up in front of their clueless and self-absorbed mother.

 

That Tom and Janine had paired up to make a fast buck from Molly and Sherlock’s wedding was no surprise - the jilted ex-lovers were doing the newspaper and talk show rounds together, claiming that the relationship had been going on behind their backs during their respective engagements - but that Kitty had managed to find out about Molly and Sherlock’s little son had been a blow. Bad enough that the secret was out, but to have their loss and heartbreak splashed across the front pages was quite another thing. That the memory of their child had been used in such a way was unforgivable.

 

Libby held her little sister tightly in her arms, letting her cry it out, as the car rumbled through the streets of London. When at last Molly had settled, Libby told her, “Look, I’m keeping my mouth shut from now on, okay? I won’t be another voice shouting at you about what you should or shouldn’t be doing, I promise. I’ll just be here for you when you need me. No more opinions, no more arguing with Mum. Okay?”

 

“More than okay,” Molly smiled and sniffled, taking comfort from her sister’s words. Suddenly things didn’t seem quite so awful anymore.

 

The moment of calm was broken when Molly’s phone rang. Gathering herself together, she wiped the last of the drying tears away with the back of her hand. ‘ _Sherlock’_ she mouthed to Libby, pulling her mobile from her bag, she swiped her thumb across the screen to answer the call.

 

“Hello to you too darling,” she said, mildly miffed, in response to the brusque question regarding her current whereabouts that Sherlock had opened with, “Just passed Montagu Street, why?”

 

Molly’s face scrunched adorably in confusion, “I don’t want to go back to Pall Mall with Libby, I just want to come home put my feet up with you and a hot cup of tea. Shut the world out.” Molly rolled her eyes, “What are you up to Sherlock?”

 

He muttered something down the line to her about the bomber he’d been chasing and an experiment that she didn’t quite catch, before, exasperated once more, she stopped him, “Look, never mind we’re turning onto Baker Street now, I’ll talk to you in a minute. Okay?”

 

“What was that about?” Libby asked, curious and confused in equal measure, as Molly ended the call.

 

“Dunno, he wants me to go to your fla-” Molly stopped mid-sentence, her words dying in her throat as the car came to stop at a police cordon.

 

The whole of Baker Street was shrouded in smoke, the source of which appeared to be their flat. Firemen were donning masks and evacuating the surrounding buildings, and what looked suspiciously like a bomb disposal squad was preparing to enter 221B.

 

Sat on the tail gate of an ambulance was a soot covered, orange blanket wearing, dazed looking Sherlock, still holding a beaker in one hand and an extinguished blow torch in the other. His second best dressing gown was still smoking and singed and his hair stood on end. Rising, he approached the town car as a shocked Molly exited it, mouth gaping, eyes wide.

 

“I can explain,” he said, confident and composed, just as the windows of their flat shattered from a smaller secondary explosion, showering the street below with glass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For a day that had started out so poorly, it certainly had improved.

 

Molly knelt panting, her hands braced against the wall above the headboard of their hotel bed as Sherlock, whose fingers gripped her hips from behind, stilled inside her; his lips finding the nape of her neck to mutter words of adoration and love in between languid, sensuous kisses. With his chest pressed to her back he pulled her down beside him, wrapping his body around hers in a loving embrace.

 

“You’re a very forgiving woman, Molly Hooper,” he rumbled, burying his nose in her hair to inhale her soft, feminine fragrance – the one that was purely hers, the one that he had dedicated an entire wing of his mind palace to.

 

She always smelled of lemon conditioner, one that reminded him of the groves surrounding the villa in Italy all those years ago, and of those glorious, endless, perfect days when they had fallen in love. But after making love, she bore the scent of his aftershave on her skin; it marked her as his, and he luxuriated in that thought.

 

“Lucky for you it’s one of my many appealing qualities,” bringing his hand to her lips she kissed his palm, then his wrist, smiling against his porcelain skin.

 

Turning in his arms to look at his beautiful eyes she brushed a delinquent curl away from his face, “Do you want to tell me what that was all about now? Or would you rather apologise to me again?” She waggled her eyebrows, teasing and suggestive, and pressed her body against his once more.

 

“Twice is enough for one evening, don’t you think?” he grinned, “I’m not a teenager anymore,” Sherlock grinding the flaccid cock that lay heavily between them against her thigh.

 

“Oh please,” Molly scoffed, giggling, “you know you’re more than capable of twice that in one night, _Lord Hottie Pants_.”

 

“Molly, I’ve asked you not to call me that,” his tone full of fake indignation and disdain, “ _Lord_ is only used conversationally, my proper title is _Earl_   Hottie Pants.”

 

“Fine,” she sighed playfully, “but just so you know, once we’re married I’d prefer to be addressed as ‘ _Your Royal Hotness’_. No excuses, no exceptions,” she burrowed into his chest, grinning, “now are you going to tell me why I’m sleeping in this beautiful and disgustingly overpriced hotel tonight instead of my lovely, grubby, cosy flat, hmm?”

 

Sherlock scrubbed his face and ruffled his hair in frustration. A wicked thought crossed Molly’s mind that she should frustrate him more often just so she could watch him do that.

 

 _Damn,_ He was sexy when he played with his hair.

 

“It’s our bomber, Eris,” he said.

 

Ever dramatic, Sherlock had named his prey after the Greek Goddess of destruction and chaos; for obvious reasons, to be fair.

 

That the bomber was destructive was a given, but her chaotic and haphazard targets had meant that she’d been able to elude Sherlock (and the Met – although Sherlock didn’t really count _them_ ) for months. His frustration growing, Molly had hidden the problems with the wedding from him, not wanting to add to his burden.

 

“Still no leads?” Peppering tiny kisses along his collar bone, he relaxed into her gentle touch.

 

“No. I’d been trying to isolate the compound she’s using in the hope that it would lead me somewhere significant, when todays…mishap occurred. It’s all so nebulous, so chaotic.” Agitated, his fingers reached for his hair again and Molly's tummy filled with fluttering butterflies.

 

“What if it’s too chaotic?” Molly offered, “what if she’s trying so hard to be chaotic that she’s actually forming a pattern?”

 

Sherlock pulled back a little to look at her, his face set, his eyes piercing.

 

“You mean spontaneous order?”

 

“Yes, like the Kuramoto model, you know Chaos theory, but with target locations instead of neurons. Hmm,” Molly mused, “but that would only work if there were more than one bomber, a team of them working together but trying to appear as though they’re just one entity.”

 

“OH _, OH!!!”_ Sherlock jumped from the bed and clapped his hands together sharply, “That’s it! That’s it. I’ve been looking for _one_ bomber, _one_ pattern when I should have been looking for a cell and _many_ patterns. OH!” he almost stumbled pulling his clothes on rushing for the door, “ _Oh!_ That is gorgeous. That is _MAGNIFICIENT!_ ”

 

Dashing around the room pulling his sooty and smoke damaged clothes on, he rapidly fired off two texts and called Lestrade, leaving a reeling and amused Molly sitting in bed with the sheets gathered around her, smiling at the man she loved, who was by now excited and giddy like a child at Christmas.

 

How she _adored_ him in those gleeful moments when the case came together for him.

 

The door slammed shut as he hopped on one foot into the hallway still trying to pull his second shoe on, only for it to swing open again a moment later.

 

Sherlock, his face lit up and eyes shining, crossed the room in three long strides and climbed onto the bed to kiss her soundly, “You, Molly Hooper, are the real genius in this relationship,” his taste still lingering on her lips as he bounded off once again for the door, calling over his shoulder, “wait up for me, I’ll have this nonsense solved in about an hour.”

 

Molly flopped back onto the pillows, grinning like a Cheshire cat, _oh_ , how she loved that man.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It didn’t take even the full hour, in the end. When Molly stepped out of the shower Sherlock had already made it back to their suite and ordered room service for them both. The cell had been discovered, their leader in custody, and Sherlock had taken the unprecedented step of allowing someone called George to round the rest of them up.

 

Stripping out of his clothes, he pulled her close, “I want to talk to you about the wedding.”

 

 _Fuck._ “Can we not talk about this now, it’s been a brutal day and I just want it to end.”

 

“Okay, fine,” he acquiesced, “but I want to say just one thing. May I?” his face hopeful, his best puppy dog eyed look trained on her.

 

_How could she refuse?_

 

Molly nodded, “Go on.”

 

“I know that I haven’t been much help, and I can see that it’s all been getting too much. You seem to like this hotel. So…” he held out a wedding brochure to Molly.

 

“No. Sherlock. For here?” she asked confused, “The Mandarin Oriental books up years in advance, I’ve checked, it’s not free.” _Not to mention completely beyond their budget_.

 

“It is now,” sheepishly, he looked at her, “Mycroft owed me a favour, and, well, I called it in.” In fact Mycroft didn’t, but promising to do two cases, without a single word of complaint, for his brother had sealed the deal.

 

“But,” she stared at the sample place settings and menus that had been tucked into the brochure, all inscribed with ‘Hooper/Holmes wedding, 24th December’, her eyes soft, gentle, trying to figure out how to explain to Sherlock that a wedding here for 400 people would cost more than they would earn in a decade. She took his hand, and shook her head, “we can’t afford this.”

 

“Ah. About that.” His eyes met hers through his long, inky lashes, “I have a, um, a trust fund, of sorts. It comes with the title.”

 

Molly stared at him incredulously.

 

“And while my parents have previously been reluctant to grant me access to it, it seems that a clause that I wasn’t aware of until a few days ago, states that upon my marriage the funds are to be surrendered to me. And my wife.” He smiled a little, boyish and sweet. “It seems that Lady Hottie Pants is quite a wealthy woman.”

 

“How wealthy?” a stunned Molly asked.

 

“A little over twenty million pounds,” Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed by the disclosure.

 

Opening her mouth to say she knew not what, Molly was interrupted by a knock at the door.

 

“That’ll be room service. Listen, we can talk about this after I’ve had a shower and we’ve eaten. Yes?”

 

 _Yes,_ Molly nodded as a cheerful Sherlock headed for the bathroom, kissing her lips gently before he went.

 

Still reeling, she let the porter in, and stared again at the papers in her hands, finally putting the horrors of the day behind her.

 

Grabbing the bowl of chocolate dipped strawberries and the bottle of Bollinger from the trolley, Molly called to Sherlock, “Run a bath instead, I’m coming in to join you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely and patient and generous and wonderful MaybeItsJustMyType, but needless to say all mistakes are mine...

 

 

 

 _“Lestrade. LESTRADE!!”_ Sherlock bellowed as he vaulted across the Duty Sargent’s desk in a single, swift, leap and barrelled toward the Detective Inspector, pinning the not altogether surprised man against the wall. The entire office stopped dead in their tracks to stare.

 

“What the _HELL_ have you done with my wife?” he ground out angrily, nostrils flaring, cheeks flushed and teeth bared. The world’s only consulting fiancé looked as though he was about to commit Lestrade-icide.

 

Struggling against the hands gripping his throat, Greg realised his feet were no longer touching the floor.

 

“Calm the fuck down Sherlock,” the DI rasped angrily.

 

“ _Now why would I do that?_ ” Sherlock spat, his face contorted with rage.

 

“Because,” Greg’s toes scrambled to reach the floor, “first, there are at least four of the Yard’s finest standing behind you, guns un-holstered and pointed in this direction, and make no mistake, they will shoot if I give the order. In fact some of them may do it without,” he glanced at Sally Donovan who appeared gleeful at the prospect. “And second, because I saved your _fiancée_ ,” he corrected, “from finding herself _actually_ arrested for an _actual_ assault. If I hadn’t picked her up when I did, she’d have taken Kitty Reilly out, you know she would. Molly may be small but she’s scrappy. Kitty would never have stood a chance, and then where would she be? It’s not the same as it is for you Sherlock, her career, her professional reputation, not to mention her own conscience was on the line. I protected my friend by arresting her, and I’d do it again if I had to. _So calm. The fuck. Down._ ”

 

Slowly, Sherlock released him, fingers uncurling from around Lestrade’s neck as his feet made contact, at last, with the ground. Only then did Greg notice how badly Sherlock’s hands were shaking, how pale he was beneath his flushed cheeks, and that his eyes were red rimmed.

 

“My office for a minute first, yeah?” then adding when he saw Sherlock’s countenance stiffen, “She’s perfectly safe where she is, one more minute won’t do her any harm. In fact it might do you both some good.”

 

Leading the visibly terrified man through the gathered crowd, Greg ushered him into his office, one hand placed protectively on his shoulder. Safely ensconced, he closed the door and eased Sherlock into a chair.

 

Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out a bottle of Middleton Reserve and two paper cups. Pouring an inch into the bottom of each, Greg pushed one across his desk to Sherlock.

 

“Do you know what happened? Or did you arrive here all guns blazing without a clue as to why I did what I did?”

 

Curls bouncing in disarray, Sherlock shook his head. Eyes downcast, he drained his cup in one swallow. _No_ , he didn’t ask questions. Panic stricken, he had reacted on instinct and impulse, unable to hear what John was trying to tell him after Lestrade had called the doctor to tell him he had Molly in custody. His ability to think, his focus, had narrowed to just one point. _Her._ Nothing else mattered, nothing else was relevant.

 

“Right,” Lestrade sighed, “it seems that when she went to your wedding venue today to go over some details, Kitty Reilly was waiting for her.” He leaned across the desk and refilled Sherlock’s cup. He was going to need it for this next bit. Christ, he really, _really_ didn’t want to have to say this, “It also seems she’d done ‘er homework. Figured out when your – your son was conceived, and put two and two together. She was going to expose Molly’s part in your faked death.”

 

Sherlock drained his cup once more and closed his eyes. A single tear ran down his face and dripped from the end of his chin onto his scarf.

 

“Well, it got heated and that’s when the hotel manager called for assistance.” Greg drained his own cup and sat back, cross legged in his chair, and watched his friend try to compose himself without much success. “By the time I got there Kitty was goading Molly, taunting her about your son. She knew what she was doing Sherlock, people like her, _journalists_ ,” he said the word with obvious distaste, “they know how to get a reaction and Molly was about to snap. Just think of the story she’d have printed if she _had_ managed to provoke her. I took them both in, but I’ve already squared away Molly’s arrest with the Desk Sargent. And Reilly’ll be done for public affray and harassment, I’ll see to that personally.”

 

Scrubbing his face, Sherlock, eyes still closed, said relieved, “Thank you.”

 

“I love that girl Sherlock,” and it was true. If Molly hadn’t been so obviously in love with the man sat before him now, for all of the time he’d known her, he’d have gone to her, he’d have told her that he… Well, that didn’t matter now. What mattered now was that his friends were so blissfully happy together, so absolutely good for each other. The truth of it plain to see; Sherlock had been just as good for Molly as she had been for him, “You know for _a fact_ that I would never be anything other than on her side.”

 

Huffing out a shaky breath through his nose, Sherlock looked up, “That I do know.” Then hesitantly, but all the more genuine for it, “I’m sorry for…earlier,” a pause, then again, “Sorry, Greg.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Lestrade smiled, a crooked little embarrassed thing, “Don’t get all soppy on me, yeah?”

 

The men sat in considered silence for a moment.

 

Calmer, at last, Sherlock asked, “Can I see her now?” and then because he thought he should say it, “Please?”

 

“Come on, then,” Greg stood, and as he passed, he paused to rest his hand on the other man’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly just once.

 

 

*****

 

 

Through lashes heavy with tears, Molly stared at the ceiling of her cell.

 

Everything, _everything_ , had fallen to shit that day. The Reilly bitch had been the last straw.

 

On any other day, she could have held her head high, ignored the snivelling little rat of a woman and just turned the other cheek.

 

But not today.

 

She’d never even told Sherlock why today was so incredibly difficult for her. Why on this day every year she disappeared without a word, telling no one where she’d gone, to spend the day at _his_ side. It was her secret, and she’d guarded it closely, selfishly wanting to keep something of him just for herself.

 

On this day six years ago she had taken a pregnancy test, drawn her own blood in the lab at St. Bart’s, and confirmed to herself what she already intuitively knew to be true; she was carrying Sherlock’s child. Shaking and crying, terrified and elated, John Mycroft Holmes had come into her life that day, never again to leave – no matter where his body lay, his soul, his life force, had existed within her and always would.

 

It was a mistake, she knew that for certain as she shifted uncomfortably on the hard cot, to have varied her routine, to have decided to stay in London today. There was so much to be done though, with the wedding only two days away, she gotten it badly wrong, misjudged her own emotional state, and the result…well, she was in a police cell, wasn’t she?

 

She’d spent the morning being harangued by her mother, who even at this late stage was trying to add to the guest list and, no longer satisfied with Uncle Phil walking her down the aisle, now wanted him to make a speech as well. The afternoon was spent being fitted for the world’s worst wedding dress – while simultaneously taking calls from a belligerent photographer, a fussy pastry chef and the lawyer who was trying to deal with Tom, Janine and the wanker wedding planner – and then a long, arduous, evening being talked down to by the banqueting manager at the hotel.

 

Enough had been enough…and then Kitty had shown up. It was a blessing - though it hadn’t felt that way at the time - that Greg had arrived when he did. Eddie Hooper had been a boxer, and he’d taught his girls to take care of themselves. If she’d just gotten in one good, lucky punch she probably could have broken the bitch’s jaw.

 

Mycroft would have fixed everything, of course he would, she’d never have been prosecuted, but would have to live with the knowledge that she’d let that piece of rubbish get the better of her, and had sank to her level.

 

Tears flowed freely again as she relived it all, her thoughts disturbed only by the sound of the cell door opening.

 

Sherlock, shoulder to shoulder with Greg, stood in the door way, his face wretched with sadness and worry. When she swung her legs over the edge of the cot to sit upright, her fiancé bounded towards her across the tiny room, dropping to his knees at her feet and burying his tear stained face in her neck.

 

“Molly,” he breathed, his arms wrapped around her tightly, his lips pressing to her skin.

 

Clearing his throat, a clearly uncomfortable Lestrade said, “I’ll, ah-I’ll sort out the paperwork, I’ll send someone to get you in a minute,” turning on his heels, he left the couple alone.

 

“It’s alright now,” Sherlock whispered, “everything’s sorted, I’m taking you home in a minute or two.”

 

He swayed, rocking over and back, holding her, grateful that she was safe.

 

“It’s not alright, though, is it?” Molly sniffed, rubbing her running nose on her sleeve.

 

Drawing back to look at her, concerned, still kneeling Sherlock traced his thumb along her cheek bone, “Tell me,” he said simply.

 

“I can’t do this,” Molly shook her head, defeated, “it’s not been right, not from the start.”

 

His blood running cold, terrified, “Do – Do what, exactly?”

 

“The wedding. I can’t go through with it. I’m so sorry,” her tears began again with renewed force.

 

Paler now, shocked, he asked in a voice that was broken and hurt, “You don’t want to marry me?”

 

“No, that’s not-”

 

“You don’t love me?” Confused, he stood, backing away. Shaking again, he flexed his hands to keep them steady.

 

“Sherlock,” she began, reaching out to him, “Don’t. I didn’t mean-” her words interrupted by a cold voice.

 

“Hooper,” Sally called from the doorway, “your paperwork’s ready, time to go.” When Molly didn’t move, but instead looked imploringly at her fiancé, Donovan barked, _“NOW,_ unless you want to spend the night here. _”_

 

“Look,” Molly said, reluctantly leaving the cell, “wait here, this’ll take just a couple of minutes, and then we can talk. Alright?”

 

“Alright,” he reached out to brush her trembling fingers with his own as she passed by him, disappearing down the corridor.

 

Closing his eyes, he tried to steady the heart that was breaking in his chest, when he realised he wasn’t entirely alone.

 

“People like you can pretend sometimes, psychopaths are good at imitation, but you could never have really been loved by a normal, sane woman. She was always too good for a freak like you, Holmes. Count yourself lucky that she’s realised that now instead of after you were married,” laughing callously, Sally set off to follow her charge down the hallway.

 

Unable to move, Sherlock stood rigid and afraid in the dark cell.

 

Molly was right; from the moment he proposed she had been unhappy, and it had pained him to see it. She had kept it all to herself and hadn’t allowed him to share the burden of her feelings. Perhaps he should have made her talk, forced her to listen.

 

Perhaps.

 

But everything had gone wrong and it was too late now. It was an omen, and she was right to heed the warning signs.

 

Though it killed him to admit it, Sally was right too; he didn’t deserve Molly, he had striven to, he always would, but he’d let her down. He hadn’t been the man she had needed him to be.

 

Well, he could fix that. Starting right now.

 

Resolved, he swept from the room, rushing through the holding area and out into the frosty London night air, his arm aloft, urgently hailing a cab.

 

He was going to do the right thing, make this easy for the woman he loved, show her that he had listened, he had observed, and that he understood. Getting married in this way would have been wrong, would have made her miserable, and now he was going to prove that he loved her enough to do anything to ensure her happiness.

 

“221B, Baker Street,” he grumbled at the driver as they sped away into the darkness, “fast as you can.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Molly frantically scaled the stairs to their flat, taking the old wooden steps two at a time.

 

When she had returned to her cell Sherlock was gone, disappeared into the cold night without a trace. Every time she called his mobile, she was met with a busy tone or his voice mail.

 

Their conversation left unfinished, she’d been tired and confused and her words had twisted into something that she hadn’t meant to say. Now, with her stomach in heavy, worried knots, she was desperate to explain that it had come out all wrong, that it wasn’t the way it sounded.

 

Greeted by an empty flat, her heart sank when she saw his violin was missing from the music stand where she had last seen it, replaced with a note that read,

 

_‘I understand, S.’_

 

Sinking into the green leather fireside chair, his chair, all of the fight drained from her, she took the beautiful emerald cut diamond ring that the man she loved more than life itself had given to her just six months ago from her finger, and placed it on the arm rest.

 

In the sparkling light of their Christmas tree, mockingly cheerful and bright, feeling more alone than she had ever before in her life and with no more tears left in her to give, Molly quietly accepted his decision.

 

Everything was in ruins.

 

Their engagement was over.

 

 


	5. An Ever Fixed Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are cordially invited to the wedding of Miss Margaret Ann Hooper to Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter was always supposed to be a stand alone story, but true to form, I changed my mind and put it with the lead in, which is why it's only now gifted to its intended recipients at this late stage.
> 
> First, for Nydamascus97 who was the first ever reader to comment on any of my fics and is therefore a very special reader to me, and gifted to her because at the end of 'And you shall take me strongly in your arms again' she asked if I would ever do their wedding. Happy Christmas my dear!
> 
> Second, for my beta, MaybeItsJustMyType, because she loves a happy ending, and I love her. Happy Christmas Sweets :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos, it truly means the world.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and very patient MaybeItsJustMyType, but needless to say all remaining mistakes and poor grammar choices are mine!
> 
> Chapter title taken from Sonnet 116, by Billy S.
> 
> A special word of thanks to DanannB for her wedding dress inspiration!!

 

 *****

 

Waking up alone, after an almost sleepless night before what should have been her wedding day, Molly tossed and turned. Their bed was uncomfortable, cold without the warm counterweight that usually occupied the space to her right.

 

She’d said the wrong thing, hurt him albeit unintentionally, but no matter what she’d said, or hadn’t said, surely he knew that her world revolved around him? That every breath she took was to exist just for him?

 

In truth, it wasn’t even that important they got married, just so long as they were together. None of it mattered, none of it. All she wanted was Sherlock. She loved him, always had and always would. A ring, a dress, vows, _none_ of that made any difference to the fact that they belonged to each other. That she belonged to him.

 

After her release, she had endured a night of missed calls and busy signals, her phone finally buzzing at 5.30a.m.. Relieved beyond words that he was safe, their engagement had become irrelevant while she worried and wondered about what he was thinking, and how he felt.

 

The last words that Sherlock had said to her almost twenty four hours ago circled around and around her head, like the garishly painted horses of a fairground carousel, ugly and far too bright.

 

‘ _I understand_ ,’ he’d said again.

 

‘ _Please come home_ ,’ she’d pleaded.

 

 _‘I can’t,_ ’ a case, he’d told her, the most important of his life, a sudden but not entirely unexpected one.

 

 _‘I love you,’_ she’d replied, hoping he would understand every unspoken feeling that those words implied, to which he’d answered, ‘ _I love you too.’_ Then after a pause, _‘Trust me? Please my angel?’_

 

She’d answered in the only way she ever could, by saying yes. Yes, she would trust him.

 

Molly rubbed her temples against the renewed throbbing in her head, and swung her legs out of bed.

 

Slipping into his blue silk dressing gown, she inhaled the scent of his aftershave, the scent of _him_ , and cocooned herself in the comfort it brought. Her eyes felt heavy and swollen, a moment was needed before she could face the world, tea first, _to make herself more human_ , she thought as she shuffled into the dark kitchen, before startling at the sight that greeted her.

 

Eve, sitting at the kitchen table, toyed with her mobile phone. Without once looking up from the screen she said, ‘I’m to take you with me.’

 

Molly gathered Sherlock’s dressing gown around herself defensively, ‘You can tell Mycroft Holmes that I’m not in the mood for his games today.’

 

Cocking her head to one side, slightly amused and with a wry smile playing about her lips, Eve spoke, ‘Gladly, but he’s not the Holmes who sent me.’

 

*****

 

Although it had once been the family home, Westport House was now the property of the 18th Marquess of Westport, Earl Altamont and his wife Lady Elizabeth, the descendants of a 16th century pirate Queen, Grace of Connaught.

 

Or, as they were better known to their friends (hers) and acquaintances (still hers), Mycroft and Libby Holmes.

 

The house was special to Molly for so many reasons. During her pregnancy she had stayed there for six months with Violet and Siger, who had regaled her with stories of their son’s boyhood antics, and had come to regard her as the daughter they’d never had.

 

Those months would forever live in her memory as some of the happiest of her life. She had found a family there; Violet had taken her by the arm on an April morning more than five years ago, leading her through the orchard, and had told her that she had worried all of her life for Sherlock’s happiness until the moment that Molly had come into his life. Handing her a small box, Violet had said, ‘ _This is a gift for you, my dear. They’ve been in my family for generations; see to it that they never leave_.’

 

Now, as the car ascended the drive of the Jacobean manor house, Molly played nervously with that same box. Eve had been sent with an instruction to bring both the heirloom sapphire earrings and their custodian to Libby’s home. A fleeting worry crossed her mind that she was about to be asked to give them back. The thought was chased away by the sight that greeted her when the car reached its destination.

 

On the bitterly cold December morning, Westport House was surrounded by tradesmen. Electricians were testing the small white lights they had just hung in the trees like jewelled chandeliers and on the façade of the manor house and florists completed the arrangements of holly and ivy that hung cheerily from an archway placed in front of the door. Through the open doorway where her sister stood, Molly could see that the main hall had been lined with lights, flowers and candles.

 

“Libby?”

 

“I’m sorry Molly,” her sister hugged her tightly, “I couldn’t tell you, he insisted that I stay quiet until he was sure he could pull it off.”

 

“Pull what off?”

 

“ _Your_ wedding.”

 

*****

 

Libby led her sister up the grand staircase that stood in the centre of the hallway, the bannisters festooned with luscious winter greenery and cream coloured roses, wrapped in fairy lights that sparkled like diamonds, and coming to a stop outside of the library, she gestured for Molly to enter.

 

“He’s through here,” Libby kissed her sisters cheek, eyes glistening with unshed tears, “I have to go, the caterers are just arriving, but I’ll be back for you in a little while.”

 

As she turned to leave, she stopped to hug Molly again, “I love you. I’m sorry this has been so hard for you; we should have done something sooner, before it came to – to this. Go,” she sniffed, her voice breaking, “he’s waiting for you.”

 

Tentatively, she turned the old brass door knob. In the bright and frosty early morning light, Molly’s eyes searched the library for any sign of Sherlock. The only trace of him to be found was the blue cashmere scarf he’d been wearing when she had last seen him, resting on the opulent red velvet couch which was positioned in front of a glowing fireplace. A Christmas tree, beautifully decorated in gold, silver and red, twinkled and gleamed at the fireside.

 

“Sit down, and close your eyes,” a rich baritone spoke from behind her, “and don’t turn around.”

 

Nervously, Molly did as she was instructed, her diaphragm hitching when she felt his breath on her neck.

 

“Trust me?”

 

Her eyes still closed, “Yes,” she answered truthfully.

 

Sherlock’s long, gentle, fingers brushed through her hair and ghosted across her cheeks as he tied the scarf around her eyes, she shivered at his touch.

 

“This will make it easier for you,” he whispered, deep and certain, as he secured a knot, plunging Molly into complete darkness.

 

A strange sensation ran through her; she suddenly felt more at peace, lighter than she had in months. In the darkness, behind her blindfold, she felt his arms wrap around her, the solidity of his body against hers warm and welcome and _safe_. The smell of his aftershave, bergamot and lemon, mingled with the homely smell of the burning wood, that crackled and hissed in the fireplace. Sherlock pulled her to him, and they relaxed into the soft cushions.

 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his breath hot and damp against her skin, his voice a little melancholy.

 

“I’ve missed you too,” and _God_ , the truth in those words. Molly burrowed into his chest, and he stroked one hand firmly in a comforting gesture along the length of her back.

 

For a few minutes they said nothing, the lovers reunited and making their peace with the world, satisfied just to be near one another again. In those moments Molly knew for certain that nothing else in life mattered, that she would never allow anything to separate them.

 

It was she who spoke first, to at last break the silence.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Hmm?” he hummed, the vibration running through his chest into her body.

 

“Why am I wearing a blindfold?” it wasn’t exactly the first time she’d worn one in his presence, but intuition told her _that_ wasn’t the reason she was wearing one now.

 

“Ah,” he tensed slightly, and then took a deep breath to relax himself again, “because if you agree to what I have to say, then you would consider it bad luck to have seen me. Before…well, _before_.”

 

Oh. _Oh_. Butterflies dived, executing acrobatic turns in Molly’s tummy.

 

He took a deep, steadying breath, his fingers flexing as he tightened his hold on her, “When you said that you couldn’t go through with the wedding-”

 

“Sherlock,” Molly pressed her face against the heart that was thumping in his chest, “I didn’t mean what I said.”

 

“Yes, Molly,” he countered, “Yes you did. And, as usual, you were right. You haven’t been happy, not really, and it would have been wrong to begin our life together that way.” Sighing, he continued, “But it was Sally Donovan who made me realise that the problems with the wedding were as much my fault because of inaction, than they were anyone else’s. I made a promise to myself, when you came back to me after our time apart all those years ago, that I would endeavour to be a better man, to be more deserving of the gifts you’ve bestowed upon me so graciously. But I let you down-”

 

When Molly, tried to object, he hushed her and kissed her hair. “No, it’s true. I’ve been so distracted by that damn case that I – I,” for the most observant man in the world, this next bit was hard to say, “I didn’t notice how unhappy you were.” His lips brushed against her hair as he spoke, “I finally listened, I observed and I understood. So, I did what I could to ensure your happiness.”

 

“You scared me, Sherlock.” Molly’s voice hitched and her eyes stung.

 

“I needed time. Time to see if I could do what was necessary in just one day,” with his cheek resting against the top of her head he whispered, “I’m sorry my angel, I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just want you to be happy. So,” he gusted, almost nervously, “to that end, we can do this at any other time, in any other place, or never at all, if that’s what will make you content to be with me. But if you wish, it can still be today. Here. There are twenty nine guests due at midday; the estate chapel has been prepared, the chef from your favourite restaurant has been seconded and is, as we speak, overseeing the wedding breakfast. Dinner and dancing will be in the drawing room – Mother has personally seen to the décor and table arrangements – and Mycroft, if you still want him to, will give you away.”

 

Molly’s chest swelled with love for her beautiful, ridiculous, man.

 

“So if you’ll have me, Molly Hooper,” she felt him smile and heard it in his voice, “I would be honoured if you would consent to become my wife today.”

 

“I – I would, but, Mum, and Uncle Phil. My wedding dress is still at the boutique-” Her tone anxious again at just the thought of those things.

 

“Your mother is here, she’s having tea with Billy Wiggins in the kitchen as we speak.”

 

For some reason Molly couldn’t deduce, Sherlock sounded gleeful at the prospect of Maggie Hooper being entertained by one of his homeless network.

 

“ _Uncle Phil_ ,” the name said with contempt, “has been the lucky winner of a Christmas cruise and left yesterday for a fortnight in the Caribbean,” that news elicited a beaming grin from his fiancée that made Sherlock’s heart flutter, “and Libby has your dress ready and waiting.”

 

His fingers trace her cheek bone, his voice light and hopeful as he spoke, “What say you, Molly Hooper? Will you agree to become Lady Hottie Pants today?”

 

Laughter rumbled in his chest when she pinched him in play for the use of the nickname, and suddenly everything was right with the world again. Sherlock, _her_ Sherlock, was as he had ever been; brilliant and idiotic, clever and silly, wonderful and difficult, surprising and predictable all at once. Her love for his sharp edges and gentle heart, unbearable and glorious.

 

The cares of the past two days, the past months melted away like the snow in spring, and Molly felt truly peaceful and content; her heart bursting with love for him.

 

“Yes,” she smiled, dazzling and real, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

 

His lips met hers in a soft and tender kiss. Taking comfort from the nearness of each other, they stayed wrapped in each other’s arms as the first gentle flurries of snow began to fall soundlessly outside. The heat of the glowing fire, the scent of the Christmas tree and the loving embrace they shared, making the moment perfect.

 

After some time Sherlock whispered, “I have to go, my love, there are things to be done. I’ll send Libby for you.”

 

They disentangled their limbs reluctantly, Sherlock slipping to the floor to kneel before her, “The very next time I see you, you will be my wife,” his voice was thick and wet, “we’ll begin a life together that I could never have conceived for myself.” He kissed her hand, then her wrists, “You’ve given me everything, Molly Hooper, know that I will give _everything_ to you.”

 

With a soft and chaste kiss against her trembling lips, he left.

 

*****

 

“She’s agreed?” Mycroft leaned across his desk to his little brother, who flopped gracefully into the wing back leather chair opposite him.

 

“Well, of course she’s agreed,” Sherlock’s nose crinkled in a display of confusion and irritation designed to hide the fact that his greatest fear in this life was that she wouldn’t.

 

“Good, good,” Mycroft pretended not to know his brothers bravado was a ruse, “I’ve continued to work on the side project, as you requested,” he pushed a sheaf of papers to Sherlock, who immediately began to read.

 

“As you requested, _brother dear_ , your wife and any children of the marriage will be named as the beneficiaries of your trust. You will continue to be without access, however, should your wife permit it, funds may be released to you.”

 

“I’ll never ask that of her,” he dismissed the suggestion. The truth was he had never wanted the money, his parents had kept him from it – and rightly so, he acknowledged – during his misspent youth. But he was a practical man and knew that someday, if they were blessed with children, they may need it. The solution being to allow Molly sole control of it all.

 

“And the properties?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Also placed in her name, with the remaining assets to be retained in trust for your children.” Wearing his most contrived look of disinterest, he asked, “It’s curious that you didn’t choose one as your marital home. Clearly you intend to have offspring,” he smiled at the idea of Sherlock surrounded by noisy and demanding children, just like his brother had been as a child, “so why not take a suitable residence?”

 

That very question had weighed heavily on Sherlock for months now; he knew Baker Street was unsuitable to raise a family, and yet his heart wanted so desperately to stay.

 

“Elizabeth and I would like give you both a wedding present,” with a knowing smile, a deed was placed on the table. “I know you have a fondness for it, and-” he paused to compose himself, “it’s an ideal place for children, fields and animals, I hear they like that sort of thing,” he smiled sadly.

 

Stunned, Sherlock looked at the piece of paper. In truth, there was only one place in the world he would consider as an alternative to Baker Street, The Beekeeper’s Cottage, in Sussex, where his family had spent blissful and idyllic summer holidays during his childhood. But the cottage had been entailed away to Mycroft when he took possession of Westport, and so was never to be his.

 

He wanted to ask how Mycroft had known, he wanted to say how grateful he was that his brother had cared enough to give him the only material possession he had ever wanted, apart from his violin. He wanted to say how truly grateful he was. Yet none of those things would pass his lips.

 

“But you and Libby…? You’ll want those things yourself one day?” Confused, but only for a moment, Sherlock saw it before his brother said the words.

 

“She, ah, _we,_ cannot,” without looking he felt his brothers eyes on him, “it makes no difference, to have Elizabeth is enough. As it would be for you, were it to be just you and Molly.”

 

Swallowing down his fears, and his overwhelming love for his brother, Sherlock simply said, “Quite so, yes,” the crack in his voice betraying him. Placing the deed to the cottage with the rest of the papers, he added, “thank you, Mycroft.”

 

Clearing his constricted throat, Mycroft continued, “As for the other matters. Ms Reilly has been promoted.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed until it was clarified. “War correspondent. Syria. I do hope she’ll be careful, I believe it’s quite the dangerous place to be,” he looked pointedly at his little brother, smiling, reptilian and cold. “And as for the lovely Janine, we now have the letters Magnusson had in his possession pertaining to her and her family; I believe she’ll be far better behaved from now on.”

 

“And _Tom_?” the name abhorrent to him.

 

“Unfortunately,” Mycroft’s eyebrows made a dash for his hairline, amused, “materials were found on his hard drive that will ensure he is of no further trouble to you or indeed, Molly. He’ll be resting at Her Majesty’s pleasure for some time.”

 

Relieved, Sherlock sat back, eyes closed, “Thank you.”

 

“There is something I would ask in return for my help in this matter,” Sherlock’s whole body snapped to attention, as Mycroft’s stared off into the distance. “Nothing too difficult, I assure you. But as I am to be denied the speech that would normally accompany my duties in delivering your bride to you, would you allow me to speak during the service?” Sensing his brother’s surprise, “I simply wish to express a sentiment that those who know you and Molly share about your relationship. Would you permit me this one indulgence of sentiment?”

 

Breathing deeply, Sherlock swept his eyes around the room, assessing and cataloguing.

 

Photographs of Mycroft and Libby littered the once cold and austere book cases; their wedding day mostly, and one taken at Molly’s birthday party last year. A framed sheet of music adorned the wall opposite his brother’s desk; a piano piece he had written for his wife and that she had framed as a wedding anniversary present, paper being the traditional first year’s gift. Flowers adorned his desk, purple calla lilies, Libby’s favourite.

 

For the first time in his life Sherlock found he didn’t want to deny his brother.

 

“Very well, Mycroft, just this _one_ indulgence.”

 

*****

 

Molly stared at the vision in the vanity mirror that stood in Libby’s dressing room. Her silken hair fell about her shoulders in a curtain of soft waves, adorned only with an art deco diamond comb that Siger had brought to her as his own wedding day gift that morning; her English Rose complexion, fresh and glowing, the makeup artist wisely recognising that such natural beauty required only the lightest of touches.

 

She was, well, _beautiful_. Stunningly so.

 

The silk floral kimono that she wore, part of the wedding trousseau that Libby had given her as her own special gift to her baby sister, fell gently about her delicate figure and even without a wedding dress she looked and felt like a bride-to-be.

 

Little by little, Molly’s excitement was building. The weight of the unwanted show wedding had been lifted from her shoulders, and finally she could appreciate what would happen today.

 

She had meant it earlier, really she had, when she thought that the wedding didn’t matter so long as they could still be together. And that was true, for both of them it seemed. But Sherlock’s excitement for their future together and for this day, celebrated on their own terms, was infectious. The fact that he wanted to be with her so desperately only served to compound her own desire to be his.

 

To be joined together, marked for the world to see as each other’s by the rings they would wear; to share a name and a purpose, somehow seemed exciting and new; gloriously wonderful in the face of the adversity that had dogged their time together. Something about this day now began to feel like the beginning of _more_.

 

The beginning of the family they talked about, of the quieter life they both had begun to crave, something solid and normal, an anchor in the sea of surreal events that had shaped their lives.

 

“ _Molly_ ,” a gentle and loving voice full of emotion breathed from behind where she stood at the mirror. Libby’s arms encircled her sister’s shoulders from behind, resting her cheek against Molly’s, she spoke to their reflection, “you look beautiful.”

 

Lacing their fingers together, she smiled, “It’s a shame I can’t wear this,” looking at the ivory and pale pink kimono, “is my dress ready?”

 

“Don’t be mad,” Libby drew back, and lifted a garment bag from her wardrobe. Her features a little worried yet sparkling with barely contained excitement, “the day I told Sherlock about Mum putting you in that awful dress, he bought this for you. Just in case you changed your mind about the meringue.”

 

“Libby? It’s not…?” Molly closed her eyes against the threatening tears.

 

“Go ahead, my sweetheart, open it and find out.”

 

With shaking hands, Molly lowered the zipper about eight inches, then stopped. The pleated, halter neckline of a 50’s vintage silk dress, a vibrant golden yellow, soft and feminine and _dreamed_ about by Molly peeked out between the metal teeth. Clasping a hand over her mouth she blinked at her sister and then almost knocked her over with a crushing hug.

 

“Thank you,” Molly choked.

 

“It wasn’t me, it was all Sherlock. He knew Mol. He knew that you were struggling; he just didn’t know how to help. It was breaking his heart, all that man ever wanted was for you to be happy,” drawing back to gauge her reaction, Libby asked, “You are now, aren’t you?”

 

 _Yes_ , the Bride nodded, “More than I can say.”

 

“Good,” her bridesmaid thumbed away the first dewy whisper of a tear from her sister’s eyes and smiled, “then pull yourself together, and stop ruining that gorgeous makeup.”

 

They hugged again, only separating when Molly’s thoughts drifted to what her mother would say to the very non-traditional dress.

 

Almost as though on cue, the dressing room door opened and a very relaxed, almost _soothed_ , Maggie Hooper sauntered through, closely followed by an amused Violet Holmes, “There’s my little Mullolly,” confused she tried again, “Mollully,” vexed at her own incoherence she finally settled on, “my little girl,” throwing her arms around both her daughters.

 

“Violet, what have you done?” Libby questioned her Mother in law.

 

“Nothing, Dear,” Violet winked at the girls, “that nice boy, Wiggins, made her tea earlier and it’s knocked some of the edges off. That’s all,” musing to herself, “It’s becoming quite the Christmas tradition.”

 

Realising that the sisters were staring in horror and disbelief, “Oh come now, don’t be prudish. I’ve had far more potent concoctions when I was a flower child in the 60’s and it didn’t do me any harm.” Violet considered this for a fleeting moment, “Not long term anyway. Besides, I’ve had Billy’s medicinal tea before and I survived.”

 

“Billilly the hot tea boy!” Maggie Hooper shouted merrily before passing out, contentedly snoring on the chaise lounge.

 

“That’s good,” Violet continued, “the poor darling can sleep it off, and we can get on with the fun part. Now,” Sherlock’s mother clapped her hands together sharply, “did you bring the earrings my child?”

 

“Yes,” Molly answered distractedly, as she watched her mum curl up in the foetal position and suck her thumb into her mouth, “you’d like me to return them?”

 

“Heavens, no,” Violet looked bemused by the suggestion, “I just wanted to make sure you wore them today. I have something that matches and I’d like to give it to you as your something blue.”

 

From an old velvet box that Violet had kept in her pocket, she took a sapphire and diamond bracelet that was a perfect match for the earrings. “Now, my dear girl,” Violet wrapped the delicate heirloom around Molly’s extended wrist, “I know Siger has given you his own gift, but this is mine.”

 

Pale silver eyes that were a perfect match for her fiancé’s looked intently into Molly’s own dark brown ones.

 

“This is too much, I– I-”

 

Serious and with conviction, the older woman took her hand, “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your sister when she married Myc.” Violet reached out and took Libby’s hand too, “These things, they’re mere trinkets compared to the gifts you’ve given my family. I’ve worried all my life for my boys, and finally I can stop, I can rest. It’s not that you share the burden, it’s that what you’ve given means there is no burden to share.” Then asking earnestly, “Do you understand?”

 

“I – Yes, I think I do.”

 

“Good, good. Finish getting dressed, time is ticking on. The cars are here, and Sherlock and John have already left for the chapel. Myc will be along soon to take you there, and this,” she waved a dismissive hand at the Mother of the Bride, “is Wiggins’ mess, so he can come fetch her when you’re ready to leave.”

 

Excitedly, Molly took her dress from the bag then stopped, “I’d forgotten!”

 

“What?” Libby asked, now preparing to slip her own dress on.

 

“I have something old, something new, and something blue, but nothing borrowed, oh God, Libby,” Molly’s eyes widened in panic.

 

“Wait here, I have just the thing,” Libby ran to her bedroom and returned with Molly’s bridal bouquet of cream roses in one hand and something that Molly couldn’t see grasped tightly in the other.

 

“The tradition to borrow,” Libby started, “began as an act of sympathetic magic. Borrowing something from a happily married couple was to borrow something of their happiness, and despite her failings,” she gestured to their sprawled and snoring mother, who was now drooling indelicately, “she and Pops were so in love.” With the length of ribbon that secured the stems, she tied the object in her hand to the flowers; their father’s wedding ring. “Now he’ll be there with you too.”

 

Speechless, Molly nodded a yes.

 

Turning away before she could begin to cry again, Molly Hooper at last readied herself to be married to Sherlock Holmes.

 

*****

 

“Today, I finally marry your mother,” sitting on the granite bench, at his son’s side, Sherlock spoke in a solemn voice. “It’s long overdue, I grant you, but _today_ feels very right. Had you survived, this would have happened years ago, I would have fought for our family, I would have become a man by virtue of your existence rather than continuing to indulge the feelings that told me I wasn’t good enough for her. Don’t misunderstand John, I still think that I’m not good enough to deserve her, but now I know that it doesn’t matter what I believe. With your mother’s help I’ve become a better man, the kindness and love she’s shown me have changed me forever and I could never live without her,” he sighed, his throat swelling, “and I know she’ll never ask me to. If you were here with us, it would be your right to take her to the alter and give her hand to me, should you have found me deserving. So I’ve come to ask for your blessing and to tell you that I promise to take care of her for you, to love her and honour her, to be the husband she needs and a friend she can trust. I promise to care for her with every bone in my body, and that my dying breath will speak her name. That I shall never fail her, and always cherish her; that my heart will be her home, my body her shelter in life’s storms, and my devotion her strength. That my only regret of our life together will be that it did not begin sooner because now I know my heart beats only for her. Loving her, it’s as though I’ve stared at the sun and the heavenly light that is your mother for too long, and now she is all I can see. She has made me who I am, and I will lay down my very existence in tribute to her love; I promise that I will spend my life endeavouring to be worthy of that love and of her faith in me.”

 

Rising, Sherlock placed his fingers to his lips and then to the small headstone, “Sleep well, sweet boy.”

 

*****

 

Large flakes of snow drifted sleepily against the leaded windows of the chapel, softened by the candle light that bathed the interior. Centuries old, the stone window sills had been worn and smoothed over time, and now gently sloped with age. Each one had been lined with a garland of holly, into which lit white pillar candles had been placed.

 

The aisle had been decorated with candelabras that rose above above the heads of the small party of guests, and were decorated with the same cream roses that Molly would carry in her bouquet. The soft defused light that they cast warmed and cheered the ancient church. 

 

A string trio entertained the guests with Christmas carols, while they waited for the Bride to arrive, which by Sherlock’s reckoning, was any moment now.

 

He looked up to the vaulted ceiling that had been strewn with twinkling fairy lights, reminding him of a starry night long ago.

 

Closing his eyes, his memory was flooded with images of Molly as she held his hand and kissed him underneath the stars when they danced together at Mycroft’s wedding.

 

That had been in the dark days, after she’d been taken, after he had almost lost her for good. His heart broken, he had kissed her back and prayed to a God that he wasn’t sure existed that she would find her way home to him, that she would see he lived only for her.

 

And she had.

 

“You’re very calm,” John joked quietly, “Scoping out the exits? Planning your escape?"

The Groom rolled his eyes, “Don’t be absurd, John.” But adding when his friend gave him his best _‘there’s nothing absurd about that’_ look, “It’s simply that I have nothing to be nervous about.”

 

“Good job, ‘cause it’s too late now anyway,” John jutted his chin toward the door, poking Sherlock with his elbow he hummed the wedding march slightly out of tune, “ta-dum-ta-dum, ta-dum-ta-dum.”

 

“Oh, do shut up John,” Sherlock scowled at his best man, turning to look toward the door way; his heart almost stopped beating in his chest when he saw the woman on his brother’s arm.

 

Tiny snowflakes bejewelled her hair, the silken chestnut curtain fell over her shoulders in shimmering, sparkled waves; cheeks rosy from the cold outside. Her doe like brown eyes danced brightly in the candle light. Molly smiled, wide and dazzling, when her gaze met that of her groom.

 

His breath hitched when she slipped the small stole from her shoulders, revealing the wedding dress that he knew she had longed to wear. Falling just to her knee, the mottled silver and gold skirt drew the eye to her slender legs, and the silver sash at her waist accentuated her exquisite figure. The soft golden silk of the bodice flattered Molly’s radiant skin.

 

In moments like this, though he never really forgot, he was struck by just how truly stunning Molly was; how her graceful beauty was the stuff of ancient myths and legends, how the gentle and loving heart that shone through her smile would make poets weep, how her delicate and fine features could inspire arias. But most of all, he was struck by how lucky he was to have won her heart.

 

Within a few steps, she was by his side, gliding toward him on the wings of the music he had composed for this day, this moment, playing for the gathered guests. Sudden breathlessness consumed him when her delicate hand was placed in his, the object of his every desire and devoted heart – Molly.

 

Their fingers entwined, the service began.

 

*****

 

Accustomed to public speaking, Mycroft was unaccountably nervous when he delivered the only reading there would be during the short service. Chosen with care, the sonnet held significance for him because of the unity and strength the couple has shown during every trial and adversity his brother and new wife had faced.

 

Breathing deeply, he watched their joined hands where they now wore rings that bore an inscription that only the bride and groom would ever know was there, ‘ _Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever Ours.’_

 

Smiling, Sherlock and Molly exchanged shy and loving looks – the groom kissing the bride’s bare shoulder, just once, soft and achingly tender - unable to take their eyes off each other as Mycroft spoke.

 

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wand’ring bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”

 

*****

 

Tired – champagne, dancing and too much joy – they collapsed into their marital bed; the one they had shared for the first time long ago, the night they were reunited after years apart.

 

In the darkness, kisses, soft and breathless, were followed by prayers of devotion. Eyes, heated and heavy lidded, watched each other, full of adoration; as though the answer to the meaning of life could be found in one another’s gaze. Slowly, gently, they made love. Afterwards, Sherlock rolled on to his side, pulling Molly with him. “I love you, Mrs Holmes,” his lips against her ear as she spoke, their hands parting only to re-join so that their rings touched, his chest pressed to her slender, bare back, dropping a kiss to her exposed neck. His hair, curling damp against his forehead, tickling and feather light against her skin.

 

For no reason that she could understand, the new Mrs Holmes blushed when he addressed her that way. Unwavering and unconditional, her heart was filled with love for him.

 

Molly’s breath was deep and even, her body relaxed against his. “I love you too,” she murmured against the entwined fingers that she had brought to her kiss swollen lips, as he ran his free hand proprietarily over the soft skin of her thighs that were tangled in the sheets.

 

Quiet for a moment, then, “Molly?” he whispered with a smile in his voice, his breath lingering on her skin, leaving an imprint of her name, “Do you want to join me on an adventure?”

 

She laughed under her breath, and turned to face him, “Every minute with you is an adventure,” her countenance affectionate and indulgent. “What do you have in mind?”

 

With their fingers still knotted together, Sherlock pulled his wife from their bed to dress; their hastily found pyjamas soon covered by warm coats.

 

“What are we doing?” Giggling softly, champagne and happiness warmed her as a glowing Molly followed her new husband along the unlit corridors of his childhood home, until they reached a doorway she’d never seen before.

 

His eyes were warm, his grin boyish and vulnerable, making his cheeks dimple, as they climbed the narrow spiral staircase that led to the roof, “I want you to see something. I want to share something with you.” His long fingers tightened around her smaller ones, and he cupped her cheek in his palm, brushing his lips over hers – her bed tousled hair and pillow creased skin irresistible to him; his eyes lingered on a pink mark that he made on her collar bone during the consummation of their marriage, “come on.”

 

Twinkling stars set against the backdrop of a dark blue velvet and frosty night greeted the newlyweds when they stepped out onto the roof. The snow had finally stopped falling, the countryside around Westport House covered in a heavy white blanket that glistened in the silver moonlight.

 

Standing at her back, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his wife, and rested his chin on her shoulder; their breath dissolving mistily into the crisp and perfectly still air.

 

In the distance a church bell tolled midnight. It was Christmas day.

 

Molly leaned back into his embrace and turned her head to kiss his pink tinged cheek, “Merry Christmas,” she whispered, then kissed him again. Her heart so full of love that she could barely breathe.

 

“Merry Christmas to you too, my angel.”

 

Silently, they stood. The warmth of each other’s bodies, the nearness, enough. Words that needed no form passing between them. Whatever barriers had once stood in the way of their happiness had long ago disappeared like the tendrils of their foggy breath into the night sky.

 

“It’s just we two,” his mouth fell to her throat again, her pulse beating beneath his lips, almost perfectly in time with his own wildly beating heart. The realisation that now, she was irrevocably his, made his heart and body sing.

 

“Nice observation,” she giggled and he rolled his eyes.

 

“I mean now. And forever. Just we two.” His embrace tightened, and then after a heartbeat, “But it could be more than that, if you wish. I want to bring our children here someday,” he pointed to the orchard and the lake, “teach them to climb trees and to swim, to sail and fish and camp.”

 

“Planning for a crew of boys, are you?” Her laugh fond and amused.

 

“Girls do that too,” Sherlock said, indignant.

 

Molly sighed, resigned to the life of chaos she had tacitly agreed to from the moment she first loved him, “I have no doubt yours will.”

 

“Perhaps,” he kissed her hair, “we could find out within a year if we start trying now.”

 

There may well be a day when she would learn how to say no to Sherlock, but Molly wisely recognised that their wedding day wouldn’t be it.

 

Her smile was flirtatious, and more than a little dangerous when she took his hand to lead him back inside with the words, “Best get cracking then, shouldn’t we?”

 

*****

 

Molly's dress


End file.
